


Cold Wind

by midmorning_bomb



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Nogitsune (Teen Wolf), Creature Stiles Stilinski, Dead Claudia Stilinski, F/M, M/M, Vernon Boyd & Erica Reyes Live
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:01:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25202863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midmorning_bomb/pseuds/midmorning_bomb
Summary: There are reasons Stiles doesn’t carry a gun, or a knife, that he chooses the bat he and Scott used to play ball with, when he’s out with the pack.
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 83
Kudos: 832





	1. Petricor

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Unfinished Works](https://archiveofourown.org/works/853562) by [Onlymystory](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onlymystory/pseuds/Onlymystory). 



“Instinct and luck will only get you so far.”

Peter stands to the side of the range, observing Chris’ speech. The man isn’t wrong, they’ve been relatively lucky, all things considered. He thinks Chris must see the mixed reaction he’s getting, his daughter all attention and eager for approval, while the other two have expressions that could most charitably be called bored. He smirks at Lydia’s growing frown, and Stiles’ quiet sigh and apparent keen interest in nudging a stone in the dirt with the toe of his sneaker. Chris continues, uncaring about any lack of enthusiasm in his two-thirds sullen audience.

“We’re starting with rifles. I need to get a sense of where your current comfort and skill levels are at. We’ll be doing the same for hand-to-hand, knives, and blunt weapons—” Peter snorts, thinking of boy and bat, “—as well some endurance training.”

Stiles sighs again, “I’m doing this under protest.” But he picks up the rifle and looks at the targets they’ve set up. Ten in all.

Chris walks them through gun safety, basic handling. Helps Lydia with her stance. Stiles attempts to look interested where he should, increasingly wanting to be anywhere else.

Lydia steps up first, hitting four of the targets, mouth still pursed in a frown. When she’s done, she nods. It’s better than she thought it would be, and she doesn’t particularly care to develop rifle skills in the two and a half months she has left in Beacon Hills.

Allison hits eight of her targets, missing one concealed in the brush, and the other at the farthest end of the range. She’s clearly irritated at missing the bullseye on two. Peter idly notes that real targets don’t have bullseyes, and even a shot that isn’t an immediate kill will take your enemy down. Allison turns, ignoring him and joining Lydia to observe Stiles’ attempt. Derek looks over at him and shrugs.

Stiles lifts the weapon, the metal is warm in his hands. It’s a nice day, the June sun bearing down on them. There are reasons Stiles doesn’t carry a gun, or a knife, that he chooses the bat he and Scott used to play ball with, when he’s out with the pack. He’s always known what he is, and as the years pass and the pull of what he _should be_ fades, he feels more adrift between what he’s been and what he could be. _Feels_ , he huffs a small laugh.

“Just do what you can, Stiles. This is an assessment, not a test. I just need to see where you’re at now, to know which areas to focus on moving forward.” Chris offers encouragement, assuming Stiles’ reluctance is the standard kind an awkward kid feels in front of an audience, and there aren’t many more awkward than Stiles. Peter’s gaze is sharper, when they make eye contact, Stiles knows that Peter sees more than most.

Stiles raises the rifle, making minor adjustments as he sights the first target. He breathes in, and out, lets himself centre. He hits the first target, and second, all ten. Breathing steadily, body relaxing into familiar actions and purpose. He could stay like this, if he wanted to.

When he’s done, Chris gapes for just a moment before taking the rifle back. Derek’s eyebrows are up, before settling into an attempt at neutrality that barely hides the mirth. Lydia rolls her eyes and turns back to her phone, Allison clenches her jaw.

Peter can barely pull his eyes away from the boy, confidence and competence have always struck a match with him. Being _seventeen_ hasn’t though, so he does his best to focus back on the matter at hand and away from the droplet of sweat trailing down Stiles’ neck.

Derek shakes his head and looks over at Stiles. “You never mentioned you could shoot.”

“Was there a question in there, big guy? I like the bat.” Stiles lifts a shoulder with a wry smile.

Chris calls an end to this first session. It went well, he thinks, with the Stiles surprise, even Lydia possesses solid skills for a beginner. Before Stiles can leave, he catches up to the boy for a last word.

“You’ve got something there, you could make a good hunter,” Chris says quietly, eyes searching the younger man’s face.

“I’m just what I was made to be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Petricor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-8xeStLTnhM).


	2. Low mist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Yes, Stiles. Aren’t you going to tell the rest of us we’re pretty?” Peter deadpans as he descends the stairwell of the loft. Stiles’ cheeks heat and for a moment he curses how human he is right now. Peter is shameless as ever, and Stiles bitterly thinks that you’re probably supposed to wear something _under_ the v-neck cardigan.

Bounding in making more noise than necessary (the noise is never necessary), Stiles surveys the loft. Derek has done a lot of work over the past few months, it’s slowly becoming a home as well as a gathering place for the pack. He glances over at Lydia on the far edge of the sofa, and Allison on the bench by the coffee table. “Hey there, lights of my life, stars in my sky, celestial—”

“Oh my god, shut up, Stilinksi!”

“Aw, don’t worry Jackson, you’re the prettiest princess up in this palace.” Stiles flops down onto the sofa, squeezing into the non-existent space between Jackson and Isaac, Lydia letting out a noise of displeasure at the jostling while Jackson rolls his eyes and tries to inch away.

“Are you saying my man isn’t pretty, Stiles?” Erica leers from Boyd’s lap, as they share the easy chair he’s long since claimed for his own.

“Yes, Stiles. Aren’t you going to tell the rest of us we’re pretty?” Peter deadpans as he descends the stairwell of the loft. Stiles’ cheeks heat and for a moment he curses how human he is right now. Peter is shameless as ever, and Stiles bitterly thinks that you’re probably supposed to wear something _under_ the v-neck cardigan.

“Can we just get this over with so we can eat?” Isaac is happier than he’s been in a long time, with Derek as alpha, with the pack. With kind touches and constant warmth. He’s also hungry, though, and it’s pizza from Giuseppe’s tonight and you don’t mess with that.

Derek nods tersely, “Argent and the sheriff should be here soon, Scott’s on his way.”

Scott comes in harried from work, still in his vet’s office scrubs. Stiles can feel the distance between them growing, he’s not sure whether it’s just one of those things that happens, when everyone finishes school and starts thinking about college and their future, or if it’s another hold loosening on him. He still cares for Scott, though, and gets a kind, crooked grin from him when their eyes meet for a moment. Scott hustles with his backpack up the stairs to change, forcing Peter to stand while rolling his eyes.

By the time he’s back downstairs, Noah and Chris have arrived, Chris looking grim, but Noah beaming. Stiles narrows his eyes at his dad, who smugly announces that he double checked and Giuseppe’s doesn’t offer their gluten-free crust _or_ vegan cheese on the delivery menu. Greater men might feel embarrassed about being smug with their seventeen year old son when it comes to being able to eat whatever they want, but greater men haven’t had to eat cardboard for crust and plastic cheese made of sadness for the past six years. Noah knows nothing good is coming, not with that look on Chris’ face, but he’s felt lighter than he has in a long time lately. Feels free, he loves his son, knows his boy is going to leave this place come September and make his way in the world. Noah feels like something is letting go in him, after years of being wound so tightly.

Chris steps to the centre of the room. “I’ve gotten word from a few different contacts that we’ve got something coming our way—” he turns a hard stare at Stiles, “— **not** a wolpertinger.” Stiles looks crestfallen and sinks back into the sofa. It’s never a wolpertinger.

Peter tries, and fails again, not to find it endearing. What is _wrong_ with him. It doesn’t stop Peter from puffing up a bit and crossing his arms across his chest, watching as Stiles’ eyes widen and track across his body, before quickly glancing away.

“From what we can gather, it’s a dhampir clutch. They’re usually fairly peaceful, quite frankly, they’re pretentious as hell and buy their way into new territory. Whether it’s this group in particular, the draw of the Nemeton, or something else about the territory, this clutch has been leaving a bloodier trail.” Chris nods to Noah, who goes over the increased traffic stops and speed traps the sheriff’s office has set up, using official channels as well as Chris’ murkier hunter connections to get an idea of when the clutch hits the town.

Stiles watches the interactions in the room. He thinks he likes some of who he is, would like to keep the keen interest in acquiring knowledge, the energy. As mortifying as his crush on Peter is, he thinks it’s something he came up with on his own, and it makes him feel a raw possessiveness. He likes Peter’s eyes, when they’re cold and assessing, the rare times when the edges crinkle and he’s openly amused. He likes Peter’s smirk and genuine smile, wants to bite his lower lip and hear him moan. Isaac coughs and elbows him, pulling Stiles out of his thoughts to Isaac’s somewhat desperate face, scrunched up nose, and eyebrows that are definitely trying to say something. He looks over to see Erica and Boyd looking at him, Erica ready to laugh and Boyd ready to judge.

He’s saved by the pizza arriving (did his dad just _cackle_?), and notices that when Scott rejoined the group, he did so on the opposite side of the room from Allison. She watches him, smiling and trying to catch his eye, while Scott persistently checks his phone. Weird.

They eat pizza and discuss strategy and research and the potential threat. Stiles thinks about how good it is to taste things, even after all this time. He thinks he’ll keep that, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to post the second chapter so you can get an idea of what the writing is like when I'm going solo. There are eight chapters + two epilogues, that will be posted over the next few days.
> 
> [Low mist](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C_JcosWeY5Q).


	3. A sense of symmetry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Claudia brings the little boy home, Noah feels a constriction on his heart, knows that this is his son, blood be damned. Knows it as soon as he lays eyes on him, felt it imprinted inside, he couldn’t escape it if he tried.

When Claudia brings the little boy home, Noah feels a constriction on his heart, knows that this is his son, blood be damned. Knows it as soon as he lays eyes on him, felt it imprinted inside, he couldn’t escape it if he tried.

He felt the same way when he met Claudia, looking up to find a woman gazing at him in the park. He was instantly swept up like a rope coiling around him, knew he had to be with her for the rest of his life. Or at least hers, as it happened.

Claudia’s illness is not gradual.

She collapses in the kitchen one day, singing and swaying along to the song on the radio while their little Mischief colours at the table, rambling a story about aliens and bears and the slide at the park, Noah humming in agreement at appropriate intervals. Everything is perfect until it’s not.

Within days his wife is gone and the fire that’s been burning in his chest since the moment their eyes first met has grown cold. He feels like he’s falling and he’s rudderless and how can grief be this hollow?

It takes him a lot longer than it should, so long he feels shame whenever his mind starts to dwell on the edges of it, to pull himself out and be there for his son. And he will **always** be there for his son.

* * *

The name Mischief is given is hard to pronounce. He’s not used to forming the word, though others come to him more easily as he settles into what he has been made. He has a spark, but it doesn’t belong to him. He is the spark, but it’s not his. He likes the things a little boy should, and other things Claudia finds precocious and adorable. He meets a friend at the park, he runs and laughs and plays, he tells stories about all the new discoveries he makes. He calls her mama. He should, she brought him to life.

* * *

Claudia glimpses the man and she is overcome with want. He’s so handsome in his uniform, smile wry but face kind, speaking with an elderly couple about the warm spring they’re having. She knows she can give him everything he wants, she can be everything he wants.

After all, what use is a candle left unlit?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more for today, because it's short, if more creepy than sweet.
> 
> [A sense of symmetry](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5KNCBeXVR-4).


	4. Gravity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What’s up, Scott? You know this is sofa is a judgment-free zone. I’m wearing my no-criticism sweatpants. You’re in a safe place.”

“Hey man, can we talk?”

Stiles blinks a couple times before opening the door wider for Scott. He’s kind of a mess, looking anxious and fidgeting with the edge of his backpack strap as he steps in. He turns, opens his mouth, then looks down and sits on the couch, shoulders slumped.

“What’s up, Scott? You know this is sofa is a judgment-free zone. I’m wearing my no-criticism sweatpants. You’re in a safe place.”

Scott looks a little exasperated but more grateful and blurts out: “I-want-to-break-up-with-Allison.”

Stiles blinks a couple more times. He can’t say he didn’t see it coming because the more he comes into himself the more he can’t help but observe everything around him. And Scott has never really been subtle.

“I mean… dude, it happens. You’re going to colleges in different cities, you want different things. Do you even want to come back to Beacon Hills after vet school?” Scott looks almost relieved, like he was expecting Stiles to somehow protest against ending the relationship. The thing is, Stiles can forgive, sometimes, but he can’t forget. He’s not built for it. And he’s incredibly petty, he accepts it, that’s all him. He hangs out with Allison in a pack-adjacent way, they joke around. He will never trust her, and he and Scott have been drifting apart for months, he’s not super broken up about any of this.

“I just, I’m good at it, you know? I’m good with the animals, I’ve got the wolf under control. There’s been so much… Life isn’t supposed to be how our lives are. I want to help people in a normal way. I just want to go to school, settle down somewhere close enough that mom can visit, like, join a practice, meet someone, have a family. Just normal. Just so boring and _so normal_.” Scott is pouring his heart out in the sofa judgment-free zone. Stiles rubs his hand across his face, thinking for a brief moment about how Scott has finally figured out who he is with the wolf and as a person. He opens his arms wide and wiggles his fingers.

“Do you need a bro hug right now? Come on. C’mere. Hug it out.”

He’s mostly kidding, but finds himself with an armful of Scott regardless. It’s not a goodbye, it’s not like they won’t still text, see each other for holidays every now and then. But it’s a winding down, an acknowledgment of what they had. They spend a couple hours playing videogames and eating garbage food and when Scott leaves he knows they’re going to be okay.

The talk with Allison does not go as well.

Scott tries to explain where he’s going and what he’s feeling, but before he can get even halfway through his speech—“Are you dumping me right now?”

“That’s, I mean, yes?” He cringes when it comes out like a question. She was so many firsts with him, his all-consuming everything. And then things just kept happening. With Kate, with Gerard, the threats against him mom. What started out an easy love ended up feeling like an obligation. A year ago, if Stiles, if anyone, had told him ‘it happens’ about breaking up with Allison, he would’ve lost his mind. But with high school over, and his future ahead of him, everything he was worried about six months ago feels so small. He doesn’t know what else to say to her that won’t sound trite and for a second he wonders if there’s a card that says something that could make a breakup happen and be over without hurt feelings. There probably isn’t, but he bets they’d sell really well.

He cringes again when he gets home, because Chris is there with his mom when he starts to stiltedly explain what happened. They understand, though, just like Stiles did. He wonders if he always should’ve been more open like this with the people in his life, not that it really matters now. Chris excuses himself to track down Allison, and Scott spends the rest of the afternoon talking to his mom about anything that comes to mind.

That evening Stiles is at Derek’s loft ostensibly helping them research dhampir but actually sneaking glances at Peter while he scans through the folders Chris left behind. Derek approaches silently before leaning in right next to Stiles, only to be disappointed when the boy doesn’t jump or even flail a little. “What’s up, my sweet and sour alpha?”

“Never call me that again.”

“My… growly veggie spring roll?” Stiles is both enjoying this and thinking about suggesting the Chinese-Viet fusion place for dinner.

Derek’s returning look could curdle milk, which should intimidate, but Peter notes just makes Stiles smile even more broadly. He knows his nephew’s sense of humour, when it occasionally leaves the dark cave it’s been relegated to, is dry enough to parch. And no one admits it, but everyone loves the stupid nicknames. Peter assumes. Because otherwise he’d have to admit to himself that the little bloom of affection he feels with every variation of _zombiewolf_ or _v-neck Lucifer_ is something else entirely and he’s never been terribly fond of introspection.

Derek continues like he’s speaking with regular people and not stuck in a room filled with teenage hormones and vibes coming off his uncle that he’s persistently ignoring. “Training tomorrow. You surprised everyone with the rifle, I’m wondering if you’ve been holding out on us with anything else.”

Stiles hasn’t knowingly, is the thing. The closest comparison he can make is muscle memory, with muscles he didn’t realize were there. He just knows, now, innately. He questions it the way he questions everything, the way your lungs move when you breathe, the strange biology that lets your eyes take in millions of inputs and cobble them together into something that makes sense for your brain to process. With the chains rapidly coming off, he’s taken more time to examine what he can do, and yeah. It looks like he’s been holding out on a lot.

“I guess you’ll find out tomorrow, my spicy wolf balls soup.”

Derek’s eyebrows shoot up and Peter barks out a sharp laugh.

“Crap, no, wait, ignore that one. Oh my god.”

And there’s the flailing Derek’s been waiting for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Gravity](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VAlDmUfoc00).


	5. Drained lake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All she wanted was a day shopping with, and consoling, her friend. And finding the perfect night cream because Boston winters are cold. Instead she is being _smarmed_ at by three dhampir.

Lydia was born in this little town and she is damned if she will die here. All she wanted was a day shopping with, and consoling, her friend. And finding the perfect night cream because Boston winters are cold. Instead she is being _smarmed_ at by three dhampir. They are pale, wearing expensive, tailored clothes in dark colours that are in no way flattering their complexions. Allison has maneuvered herself slightly in front of Lydia, hand on the blade at her wrist, and Lydia is honestly done with all of this.

She levels them with a disdain-filled glare: “What. We’re busy.”

“Surely two lovely ladies such as yourselves can spare a little time, we just want to have a conversation.”

Lydia and Allison exchange a look, because seriously? Allison’s experience as a hunter is admittedly more limited than she’d like, but she had been expecting more fangs and blood and less oppressive cologne and terrible pickup lines. They’d received word from the sheriff of a small entourage of SUVs entering Beacon Hills late last night, turning today’s assessment into an actual training and strategy session. At least she and Lydia will have intel to share, although she hopes it’s about more than the dhampir’s disturbing over-application of Drakkar Noir.

“Why are you here, unannounced and uninvited, in Hale and Argent territory?” A passing mall security guard slows down as she passes them, turning back after a moment to approach.

The dhampir’s eyes go flat and cold then, shedding any illusion of humanity. Allison grips her blade at the sudden shift, while Lydia’s hold tightens on her phone, an SOS text half-written. “We’d heard such pleasant things about the local wildlife, we had to come see it for ourselves.” The words are still overdramatic and ridiculous, but Lydia feels the temperature dropping around them. Three smiles with dead pupils and too many teeth, and the men turn abruptly and walk away.

“What. The. Hell.”

Later at the training range, Chris is ready bury the dhampir and salt the earth around them. They came after his _daughter_. “It doesn’t make any sense. Dhampir can be cryptic assholes, but they’re smart enough to stay away from hunters. They love politics, throwing money and influence around, not threatening teenage girls.” Allison stiffens, she’s the Argent matriarch and nearly an adult, if her father won’t respect her position, how will anyone else? 

They’re under more pressure now, but there is never going to be a good time to take training slow and easy. Scott couldn’t make it, they may be fighting monsters, but kittens aren’t going to de-worm themselves. Peter is running the remaining wolves through the known weak points for dhampir. While they don’t have the raw strength of a vampire, they also have few of the natural weaknesses. Removing head and heart works for most creatures, though, and dhampir are no exception. Boyd and Isaac listen intently, and Erica too intently, while Peter details the various tissues, muscles, and bones that must be successfully severed to remove head from body, to pierce the chest cavity and reach the heart. Jackson looks bored, but nonetheless flicks his claws when Peter brings out the cooler with the butcher cuts they’ll be practicing on.

Chris and Derek are faced once more with Allison, Lydia, and Stiles, running through the most relevant combat and self-defence skills. Lydia accepts the taser, but puts her foot down when it comes to knives and a set of iron knuckles. After a few shots on the practice dummy, she returns to their notes and research, considering both supernatural and legal venues to get rid of the clutch. Chris looks at Stiles, “How good are you with knives?”

“…Good?”

Chris huffs out a quick sigh. “Let’s try a little hand-to-hand, see how you do, then we’ll move onto sharp objects. I trained Allison myself,” she proudly smirks over at Stiles and Derek, “so let’s have you run a few rounds with Derek. Simple two second pin, best two out of three.”

Derek rolls his shoulders and cracks his knuckles, while Stiles smiles with a muttered “dramawolf,” moving into the ring they’ve outlined in chalk. Derek looks over at the kid. Stiles has more muscle than he used to, but that’s not saying much. A couple years of lacrosse and running for your life will do it. Stiles stands relaxed, arms at his side, no stance whatsoever. “You need to put a little effort into this, Stiles. Try and get at least one pin, even if you can’t hold me.” Stiles shrugs and makes a ‘let’s go’ motion with his hand.

Derek will swear he charged and swiped at Stiles, but the next thing he knows, he’s on his back with the wind knocked out of him. Chris, Allison, Peter, and all the betas aren’t even trying to hide their shock. Stiles holds out a hand, “Round two?”

Stiles needs to focus and think about what his desired outcome is here. He doesn’t want to hurt the wolf. He could, though. His goal is Derek down or pinned for two seconds without any lasting damage. The strategic part of him knows being underestimated can work well in your favour, but these are his friends and allies and there’s no harm in them being fully aware. Well, mostly aware. Aware-ish.

Another flash of movement and Stiles has Derek pinned to the ground this time and Peter desperately needs Chris to wrap this show up before he embarrasses himself. Erica is already _looking_ at him. He weighs the pros and cons of getting one of the betas alone to weasel out when Stiles’ birthday is.

“That’s… that’s good, Stiles. I think we can safely move onto knives now.” Chris knows he’s still staring, but what the hell.

Chris gets the fixed blade tactical knives he’d intended to bring out after they'd worked with the santoprene training ones, but that seems unnecessary at this point. Stiles holds the knife like an expert, but looks it over with joyful wonder. He and Allison work both together and in competition on throwing the knives, working with the training dummy, and disarming each other. Stiles moves like wind and Allison doesn’t understand how he possibly could have hidden this for so long. His knife glides, virtually melting into their targets. He’s not even breaking out a sweat, just a laugh or cheer or easy taunt every now and then.

In between rounds he flips and twists the knife with a comfortable grace she’s never seen in him before, the blade dancing in his hand. He looks utterly at ease. At one point she swears she accidentally nicks him during a disarming exercise, but he says he’s fine and when she looks at her knife, all she sees is a smudge of white dust along the sharp edge. At the end of 90 minutes, she’s sweating and frustrated with Stiles and with Scott, with the dhampir clutch, with her life.

Stiles asks Chris if he can keep the knife and Chris agrees because why not, apparently the kid is a skinny war machine hiding under too much plaid and sarcasm. Chris would pay dearly to be able to train him as a hunter, but knows Stiles will never take him up on it. He’s not interested in submitting to that kind of authority and also he currently has a dopey smile on his face as he looks over at Peter Hale like he hung the moon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Drained lake](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PJ9PMOxP90M).


	6. Cold wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jackson hates this town. With the evil dead stump, constant threat of dismemberment, and pasty assholes threatening his friends at the mall.

“Okay, you can do this. You can do this, Stiles. Just walk on up there. Knock on the door.”

Peter waits on the other side of the loft entryway for whatever it is Stiles is psyching himself up to do, coffee in hand. Derek is out for his asshole o’clock morning run, none of the betas are around, either still asleep or out doing something Peter doesn’t care about. He briefly considers changing into that cardigan Stiles seems to admire so much.

Stiles barely gets a knock in before Peter opens the door with a flourish and a leer. Stiles gapes for a moment, turning a shade of red Peter could get used to, before he blurts it out:

“Will you go out with me? On a date. Out on a date. With me.”

Peter does not gape in return, that would be humiliating. Peter recovers (almost) instantly, sips his coffee, and asks, “And what kind of date will you be taking me out on, Stiles?”

Stiles blinks for a moment, then with sparkling eyes, he beams the full confident smile that definitely does not make Peter melt a little. Because again, that would be humiliating.

“Uh, do you like tacos?”

Jackson hates this town. With the evil dead stump, constant threat of dismemberment, and pasty assholes threatening his friends at the mall. They’re in the Argent’s study, looking up supernatural loopholes to make desperate vampire wannabes relocate and stop being losers who hang around Chipotle skeeving on teenagers. He’s halfway through his second ancient tome about supernatural border etiquette, thinking about asking Lydia if she wants to make out for old time’s sake. Allison chooses that moment to enter the room, a triumphant grin on her face.

“Intel just came in from one of our connections. The clutch doesn’t want the land or the Nemeton, they want to perform a ritual at the cemetery by the county assessor’s office. Apparently they used a rare heliotrope stone in parts of the mausoleum construction.”

God, Jackson hates this town so much.

Allison looks thrilled, though, asking Lydia if they’re ready to go with the lore she tracked down. Lydia hedges, “According to this chapter, the clutch should leave once the order is specifically given by someone with authority within the territory. But it also says that under protocol, they never should’ve approached us at the mall. Allison, we need to wait, and make an actual plan with your dad and the sheriff.”

“As matriarch, _I’m_ someone with authority to order them to go. Maybe they approached for permission to do their ritual! In the creepiest possible way.” Allison needs to do this, without falling back on her dad, the local wolf pack, on _Scott_. She may have been kept in the dark when it comes to hunting, but she’s still been training for years. And she would appreciate it if her friends had a little more faith right now. “Let’s go!”

Jackson and Lydia share a look, quickly shooting off texts to Peter and Stiles, respectively. This is going to end in tears. Lydia looks down, she’s wearing her tan suede Coach booties. Damnit.

Stiles is debating with himself about whether or not he has enough cinnamon gum in his pocket to offset the garlic and onions in the entomatadas when Peter curses and throws a couple twenties on the table.

“Lunch is going to have to wait, sweetheart, check your phone.”

Stiles frowns and checks his texts, following Peter out of the restaurant, shooting an apologetic expression at their server. The message from Lydia reads: _Found passage about clutch leaving if asked by authority, Allison says she can do it. Heading to mausoleum at cemetery on Elliott. SOS. Tan suede, Stiles!!!!!_

Crap. He and Peter need to hurry. Lydia loves those booties.

“We’re taking my car, darling, no arguments.” Stiles makes a noise of protest, but slides into the passenger seat of Peter’s perfect automobile. It smells like Peter and expensive car. He squirms in his seat, sneaking a look at Peter’s thighs, and mentally writes Allison off his Christmas card list. He lets his dad and Chris know what’s happening and where, but they’re both tied up with their day jobs. He lets Derek know, too, but Derek ignores 85% of his texts ever since Stiles found a Reddit thread with a comprehensive list of power metal werewolf tracks. He absently drums his fingers on his backpack, fighting the urge to reach inside and take the knife from its sheath.

Stiles thinks about letting go as they approach the edge of the cemetery, but he still feels the smallest pull toward Mischief. It holds him back and frustrates him, even as he pieces together all the things he’s holding onto, attempting to shed the rest. Ahead of him, Peter cocks his head, then motions Stiles forward and takes off running through the tombstones and monuments.

Lydia fires her taser, barely stunning a dhampir when the shot doesn’t quite land correctly, while Jackson attempts to fight off two more of the clutch. One dhampir lay dead at his feet, head a short distance from the body. Peter notes, distantly pleased, that his training paid off. The last two have Allison pinned down by the mausoleum wall. Peter sinks his claws into one of dhampir attacking Jackson, forcing them in deep, at the same time as Stiles effortlessly sinks his knife into the base of the spinal column of one of Allison’s adversaries. It slides in so smoothly, his eyelids flutter with the sensation.

“Stiles, I don’t need your help! Go help Lydia!” Allison swings an iron-knuckled fist, forcing the other dhampir back a step.

“She has Jackson and Peter, Allison, let’s just get this done.” He pulls back his knife to go for the dhampir’s throat, when Allison pushes him in Lydia’s direction. It’s enough to throw him off a fraction of a second, enough for the dhampir to dodge the blade, to push forward, to sink its blackened claws into Stiles midsection.

Lydia drops the taser, feeling pressure building in her throat, casting a horrified gaze at Stiles. Jackson finishes with the stunned dhampir, about to move onto the third when he sees the look on Lydia’s face. Allison falls back against the mausoleum, “I… I didn’t…”

Peter can’t howl. He can’t scream, he can’t take a single breath as the dhampir’s clawed hand pierces clean through Stiles’ chest. He can’t do this, not again, he can’t lose Stiles, **he won’t**. When he opens his eyes, charging at the dhampir still hovering over Stiles' body, his irises are flaring crimson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> True alpha moment.
> 
> [Cold wind](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LNfclX38EHM).


	7. Béton brut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I hope this cottage brings you the same joy, Agathe, and watch for the rabbits in the garden of late.”

Her father loves her, well as he can. A wife gone in childbirth, leaving him with a daughter too clever and cold by half. She’s not meant for the life they have, here in the village, watching the sea. He’s away so often, between the short merchant hauls and the longer trading voyages. He strikes up a deal with the hægtesse who lives on the edge of the forest, comes to town to sell charms and tinctures. She will teach his daughter, shelter her while he’s away.

She’s happy with the hægtesse. She learns to read, to put power into bone and metal and dirt, shape charms and pendants. She learns which herbs heal, which plants poison. She throws herself into the knowing of the forest, finds places her own, savours the cozy heat of the cottage hearth.

Her father is on a ship lost. The village holds out hope longer than they should, for their sailors to come home, but she felt the faint connection snap and knows.

Seasons change with the garden tended, books collected, and the growth of the forest. One day the hægtesse sits a long while by the hearth, finishing the sigils on the quilt she’d been working since summer past. She ties off the final stitch, brittle hands carefully laying the quilt on the bed, smoothing out the edges. She brushes her shock of white hair and pulls it up into a loose curl, secured with the silver comb she treasures most. The hægtesse gathers dried lavender and ground elder into her pocket, along with her small calfskin journal. She looks back at her young charge, perhaps not so young anymore.

“I hope this cottage brings you the same joy, Agathe, and watch for the rabbits in the garden of late.”

* * *

She continues to add to the library the hægtesse had cultivated and loved so dearly, coming across a thick tome detailing various methods of protection. As the trade routes have flourished, so has the village. While those born there, who will live and die there, respect her and the forest, the transient visitors are unpredictable. Her charms can only do so much, and it would be good to have some help with the garden.

She shapes the homunculus to look like a child of 5 or 6 years. It won’t impact the durability, and she’s found being underestimated often works in her favour. It is not sentient. It does not think, it cannot feel. She’s not seeking companionship. She uses white clay, the cold wind, and three volumes in its crafting: an anthology on anatomy, a guide to the knife and blade, and a treatise on strategy. It will absorb knowledge given and retain skills, she is happy with the end result of her workmanship.

She is also careful not to expend any of the fire within her, she does not want to breathe life into the thing, certainly of no mind to shorten her own in the doing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stiles’ origin finally revealed. Anyone who guessed “homunculus crafted by a German witch a few hundred years ago, later brought to life by an American spark with a tenuous grasp on sanity” gets a (virtual) high five. One more chapter to go, then epilogues.
> 
> [Béton brut](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fSrun9fIrG4).


	8. View from the other side

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t leave me, you can’t leave.”

“Peter.”

Through the haze of red, howl still choking him, his claws near finished severing the dhampir’s vertebrae, Peter stops and looks up to see Stiles standing like a beautiful, bloody phoenix. The hole in his chest is sealing shut with wet suction sounds, and Peter can’t help a hysterical laugh from escaping as it reminds him of last spring, when Stiles lost his shoe in a muddy swamp, complaining about squelching and bogs of eternal stench. Stiles beams at him, suddenly swiping his arm up and back, plunging his knife into the eye socket of the remaining clutch member. Peter rushes to gather him in his arms, holding Stiles as gently as he can at the moment, while inhaling deeply with his face buried in the young man’s neck. He smells like the earth and rain, the forest, and a not-insignificant amount of dhampir blood.

“Don’t leave me, you can’t leave.” He hears how pathetic he sounds begging this boy (is he? Peter might not be an expert on human biology, but he’s reasonably sure they don’t reshape like clay on the potter’s wheel), he doesn’t care.

Stiles’ knife arm is starting to get cold and clammy, where the dhampir blood is soaking into his sleeve. He’s still pleased, though, that he kept his ability to feel and touch and taste as he shed the last of his shackles. He has no memory of being molded, he had no consciousness, but when Claudia used her spark to ignite him, it came with a thousand little dictums of what he would be. Her perfect little boy.

Now he’s free, breathing in the smell of Peter’s sweat, hands pressed against Peter’s back, and he’s just so, so grateful he can feel. And then he’s tasting Peter’s lips, and yeah. He could get used to this.

He darts his tongue forward, finally biting Peter’s lip and hearing the moan he’s been dreaming about for the better part of the past eighteen months, when he hears his dad’s disapproving cough.

“Anyone want to explain what happened here? Feel free to start with why _my teenage son_ has his tongue down Peter Hale’s throat.”

Noah stands a few feet back, flanked by Derek and Isaac and surrounded by what’s left of the dhampir. Everyone’s still in one piece, that’s good. And he reminds himself that Stiles will be eighteen in a few weeks, and can technically make his own decisions. That doesn’t mean they’re good decisions, though, and in addition to answers re: the bodies littering the ground and Peter Hale, he’d really like to know why Stiles’ shirt is torn to shreds and his arm is drenched in blood.

“He—y dad. There is definitely a good explanation for all of this.” Stiles gestures vaguely around, at himself, at the pile of bodies, little spatters of dhampir blood flying in all directions as he flails.

Noah pinches the bridge of his nose and looks to the sky for strength, before asking Derek and Isaac to please help with corpse disposal, so that they can relocate back to the loft to get cleaned up and debrief. He turns his sternest Dad Face at his son, pre-empting any cracks about ‘debriefing’. Lydia has recovered enough to suggest they put the bodies into the mausoleum. According to what she’s read, the dhampir will decompose relatively quickly, and extra additions to the dusty tomb are less likely to be noticed than six freshly-dug graves.

Stiles would help them, but Peter doesn’t seem to be letting go of his hand anytime soon, and keeps letting out low, rumbling growls whenever anyone gets close. He thinks it must be a sign of how far gone he is that he finds Peter’s repeated scent rubbing against his cheek and the top of his head adorable instead of really, really weird. Isaac has been spending too much time with Derek, because he just smirks and rolls his eyes at Stiles while tossing an errant dhampir head into the crypt.

Later at the loft, everyone is clean, and Stiles is wearing one of Peter’s few non-v-neck sweaters, the wolf preening beside him. Noah’s deep frown only breaks with the arrival of the order from Giuseppe’s, the second this week. The rest of the betas are there, along with the Argents, Allison silent with red-rimmed eyes and Chris stone-faced. Scott hugs Stiles hard for a good minute, completely oblivious to Peter’s warning glare.

Derek stands to address the group. He’s been planning this next move for a while, but Peter becoming an alpha again (in a way that didn’t involve familicide) has accelerated his timing. “Now that Peter’s an alpha, he’s going to need betas. Jackson has already joined him, and I’m assuming Stiles has as well,” he furrows his brows as he says it, the less time spent thinking about the scent coming off his uncle right now, the better, “and I’m offering to be the third. Boyd, you’ve been a good second, and I trust you. With the pack. If you want to be the alpha in Beacon Hills, it’s yours.”

This is a lot more public emotion than Derek is comfortable with, and the screeching cheer Erica lets out doesn’t help. Boyd looks genuinely touched and proud, though, as he nods acceptance, and Derek thinks maybe he’s finally got something right. He watches as Boyd accepts a congratulatory clap on the back from Noah, and Erica tackles Isaac in an aggressive hug and smacking kiss on the cheek.

“Thank you, nephew.” Peter murmurs, to be heard just over the din. He looks like he might know some of what this costs Derek, but neither of them can change the past.

Stiles clears his throat, because this is going to be awkward and he probably needs to have a long conversation with his dad at some point. He figures he may as well just hit the highlights: “So yeah. Technically I’m made of clay, the wind, some books, and a spark. Super durable, and zero interest in testing how much damage I can take.” He flops back down beside Peter and raises an eyebrow at the man obviously trying to hold in laughter.

With the exception of Allison, everyone is staring at him, _again_.

Noah has had nearly twelve years of this, so he lets Stiles know they’ll be having a discussion later at home, and redirects the conversation to ask how a switchover of alpha leadership works. Boyd absorbs everything Derek says, mentally putting together a list of questions. This isn’t exactly what he expected, when he originally took the bite from Derek, but he has a family here and a plan the future. He has a girlfriend he’s crazy about, and weird-but-loyal friends. He can do this.

That evening Stiles and Noah have a long talk. About Stiles’ biology, his feelings for Peter, about Claudia, about the Criminal Justice and Comms Studies programs he got into at Sacramento State. There’s a lot about the nature of what Claudia worked on them both that Stiles keeps to himself. Some of what he thinks is conjecture, and muddled by the influence she had over him due to the method of his recreation. When it comes down it, none of it really matters to the here and now.

After Noah heads off to bed, Stiles goes to his room and is in no way surprised to find Peter lounging on his bed, reading his copy of Jomini’s _The Art of War_.

“I always thought Jomini had an interesting grasp on the importance of troop morale.”

“That’s great, Peter, my life is richer knowing that about you.” Stiles laughs and snarks, stripping out of his socks, jeans, and Peter’s sweater before sliding into bed beside the wolf. “Clothing optional, shadywolf.”

“I’m hardly shady, sweetheart.” Peter stands to pull off his sweater and remove his socks, slides his dark jeans down his thighs while Stiles watches and swallows hard, before getting back into bed.

“You were lurking in my room, eavesdropping on the conversation with my dad, while snooping through my stuff, and probably rubbing your scent all over the furniture.”

Peter sniffs, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. On a completely unrelated note, will you be renting an apartment in Sacramento, or living in the dorms?”

Stiles laughs again and pokes his side, “Thinking of visiting, alpha mine?”

Peter’s eyes glow bright and he wraps his arms around the young man made of clay and wind and books and spark, “Something like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next in the epilogues: Boyd as alpha! Noah, vegan cheese expert! Murder rabbits!
> 
> [View from the other side](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H6b2ct-ZN58).


	9. Epilogue I, Numbers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What did I ever do to deserve this?”
> 
> Stiles laughs and laughs and laughs.

The transition of power between Derek and Boyd goes smoothly, Erica, Isaac, and Scott remaining as Boyd’s betas. Erica earns her associate’s degree in Culinary Arts Management, while Boyd completes a program on restaurant entrepreneurship. Together they open a café, where Isaac joins the staff. It’s during a shift there that Isaac meets the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen, possibly the most beautiful woman in the world. She comes in three days in a row to smile shyly at him, and so begins his adorable and awkward courtship with an equally adorable and awkward kitsune. Erica can’t wait until they move past smiling helplessly at each other all the time and start making tiny, little, adorable and awkward babies.

In addition to sharing an apartment, Jackson and Danny spend their college years putting together a plan for a startup that deals in risk analysis. It’s a solid hit, and two years after they’ve graduated, they have an office downtown with twenty-three employees and a very healthy net worth. They make the cover of Forbes 30 Under 30, which Jackson has blown up, framed, and hung on the wall of their very stylish lobby. The pack is invited to the office celebration, and Stiles almost makes fun of the poster-sized cover until he sees how proud Jackson looks showing it off to his alpha. Instead he just gives him an exaggerated thumbs up, then shares a shrug with Danny and Derek.

No one hears from Lydia very often, but every now and then she’ll swan in and make the rounds for visits. Wherever she works, it’s top secret, and no one knows if it’s for the government or a major corporation or what. Anytime someone asks, she smiles and deftly changes the subject. Whatever it is, it pays well. She sighs happily, buffing her manicured nails and admiring her Valentino Garavani studded pumps.

Chris and Melissa both stay in Beacon Hills, retiring early to enjoy their lives and each other. Chris takes up woodworking, which Melissa heartily encourages. What can she say? She likes a man with a beard and a toolbelt. Seeing Chris with a miter saw just _does things_ for her. She joins a book club that’s really just a wine and bread and cheese club, with the occasional novel as a prop. Chris is worried about Allison, thinks she's taken on too much with the family business (both of them). Every time he brings it up with her, she just tells him everything is fine, she can handle it. He’s going to suggest a longer break for the holidays this year, maybe spend some more time together for Christmas. He’s working on a plan for an oak bedroom set for the spare room that Melissa seems really excited about.

The small-but-thriving vet practice Scott joins is in Dixon, half an hour outside of Sacramento. He coaches lacrosse for a rec kids’ league, and stays in touch with his mom and Chris and Stiles. Boyd is a good alpha, they have a pack night that’s really just sampling new cakes and pastries for the café a couple times a month. He’s been dating a dental hygienist who works in the same business park as the vet’s office, she came in one day to adopt a puppy and their friends joke she left with two. He’s planning to propose to her this weekend, he found the perfect card to go with his prepared speech and the vintage rose quartz engagement ring.

Allison continues as matriarch, but ends up giving up the day-to-day of Argent Arms to a trusted senior VP at the company. She loathes admitting it’s more than she can handle. It’s not that her dad made this seem easy, but he never seemed to struggle with the pressure like she does. He keeps telling her not to be so hard on herself, but she knows the cost of her mistakes. She finds herself spending too much time thinking about the past. When she catches herself checking up on Scott online again, and sees that he’s engaged and happy, she wonders where she went wrong. Maybe she should finally take her dad up on the offer for a longer visit.

Noah is wistfully browsing the vegan cheese section one day, when he notices a woman looking back and forth between the _Un-Brie-Lievable_ cashew cheese and daiya _Mozzarella Style_ shreds. She’s gorgeous, with her hair up in a loose and messy bun, and glasses sliding down her nose a little. He pulls out the Stilinski charm to strike up a conversation, ask her out for coffee, and let her know that absolutely any fake cheese is better than daiya fake cheese. Lynn ends up becoming good friends with Melissa, even joins her book club. Noah decides to talk to Chris about some tips for beginner woodworkers, after Lynn casually mentions it might be a fun hobby.

After travelling around for a while, Derek opens a little studio in Somerset. He paints nature scenes on salvaged wood. Like, full on Bob Ross, happy-little-tree paintings. Stiles must be going soft, because when Derek gifts them one, uncharacteristically nervous and shy, Stiles gives him a bro hug and goes to find the 3M strips, rather than making any comments about ‘happy little wolves’. Derek looks so quietly pleased when the painting gets placed over the mantle, Peter’s mild horror at having a _picturesque country landscape_ in his living room is quickly swept aside with a meaningful glance and cough from Stiles. Peter ends up helping work Derek’s art shows, where he happily smarms suburban couples into paying twice what Derek had originally priced the paintings. Occasionally Derek visits Peter and Stiles for just a little too long. Stiles likes having company, and Derek gets his kicks where he can watching his uncle make increasingly unsubtle hints that he should _go home_.

Peter and Stiles have what Peter calls a cottage and Stiles calls excessive, a few hours from the city, in Tahoe National Forest. They’d live closer to civilization, but a couple years back Stiles finally, _finally_ , **_finally_** came across a wolpertinger during what should have been a straight forward search for a rare nightshade. Now there are three of the filthy creatures living in a shed in their yard. Peter calls it a shed, but Stiles has installed insulation, heating lamps, three levels of bedding, a water fountain, a kibble-dispenser, and a speaker system that plays _soothing nature sounds_ and those little bastards are never going to leave.

His pack consists of Stiles, his nephew, Jackson, and what Stiles refers to as their ‘wolperchildren’. He’s happier and more settled than he ever thought he would be, before or after the fire, certainly more than he’s due.

Stiles is in the kitchen, rolling something out on the marble countertop and half-singing, half-mumbling a song about making biscuits, when Peter comes up behind him, flush against his back. Stiles makes a happy noise, tilting his head to the side and exposing his neck, while starting a slow grind backward. Peter growls as he mouths at the edge of Stiles’ jaw, he’s noticed that ever since he let the full beard grow in, Stiles is constantly ready to go, even moreso than before. He grips Stiles’ hips, thrusts forward and—

“PETER! STILES! I brought some more of that organic cotton bedding for your creepy murder rabbits. Also your dad and Lynn are here.” Peter can hear the grin in Derek’s voice as he enters the cottage, completely uninvited, and Peter would kill him but he needs three betas and the wolperchildren really don’t count. He sighs, long and deep.

“What did I ever do to deserve this?”

Stiles laughs and laughs and laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My favourite bit of research in all of this was finding the [Wolpertinger beer mascot](https://untappd.akamaized.net/site/beer_logos_hd/beer-1144950_92569_hd.jpeg). 
> 
> [Numbers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oe-mt2W1v0A).


	10. Epilogue II, Golden butterflies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first thing is to pack up the library. These books were her heart and home for so many years, her most treasured gift from the hægtesse.

The first thing is to pack up the library. These books were her heart and home for so many years, her most treasured gift from the hægtesse. Breathing them in one last time, she slips her journal into the side pocket of her skirt.

She then removes the little bone charm she wears around her wrist, the one that wards against sickness. It was the first that she crafted under the hægtesse’s tutelage. She takes out her earrings (runes for focus), removes her pendant (protection from those who would do harm), slips off the silver ring with the incantation for luck engraved in rudimentary, but effective, letters. Tucks them all in a small wooden box, holds it to her chest for a long moment, then places it by her bedside.

She looks around her little cottage, her life’s comfort and shelter and joy. She sets the shawl she spent an entire winter embroidering with little blue cornflowers, and has worn daily since, on the bench by the hearth. Finally she instructs the homunculus to sit in the chair that faces the garden. Perhaps even a shell can enjoy the seasons’ performance, wildflowers blooming freely now amongst the chamomile and sorrel while a pair of brown rabbits twine between the fenceposts.

She walks into the forest until she reaches the little grove, with raspberry and blackberry bushes growing all along the edging. Continues walking through the low-blooming ocean of gentian. She passes nests of woodlarks settled into the ground, hears their song from the branches above.

She arrives at the midway point, the small pond surrounded by bee balm and golden butterflies. She used to come to this place for the nighttime rituals, sharing her voice with the fireflies.

She walks until the sun hangs low, burning in the sky, and the air turns heavy and sweet and she reaches her destination.

“This was a good life,” she thinks. She says goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Agathe, out there living her best life in the forest.
> 
> [Golden butterflies](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=juna42yknaY). 
> 
> So, that's it! Thanks very much for your kind comments and kudos. I'm an illustrator by trade, so praise sustains me. This first writing experiment was really fun, I'm trying my hand at a series of short oneshots next.

**Author's Note:**

> So the last time I did any creative writing was well over a decade ago for a poem in college. Fair warning? 
> 
> Also I've never watched Teen Wolf, but I did skim through _several_ videos to try and get a better idea of character voice, which would otherwise have been solely informed by what I've read on AO3.
> 
> Story and chapter titles are from Ludovico Einaudi and Loscil tracks. Songs are much more melancholy than the story.
> 
> Also hey, I'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/sarahfairwrites) and [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/sarahfairwrites/) now for art/writing, if you want to chat/follow.


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